A Very Sexy Alarm Clock
by KitchenWitch1994
Summary: Jim feels pretty annoyed when he wakes up much earlier than usual. The feeling doesn't last when he finds out what he woke up for. Part two of the "Very" one-shot series. Slightly cracked, lots of K/S slash. Rated M for MATURE ADULT CONTENT.


_This story is dedicated to the lovely Tech Duinn, without whose help this story would not have made a bit of sense. Enjoy the fruits of your labor, my dear!_

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**A Very Sexy Alarm Clock**

Jim blearily opened his eyes, but otherwise he refused to move. The clock on his nightstand clearly said 6:23 _ante meridiem_. Morning. What the hell was he doing up this early?

After about a minute, Jim started looking around on that side of the bed. Most of the room was still dark, but he could see his yellow overshirt draped precariously over his favorite chair. His uniform pants were on the floor a few feet away, along with a blue overshirt and shoes.

_Spock's _blue overshirt and shoes.

The captain hummed contentedly, remembering in fine detail the night before. Not necessarily the reasons _why _Spock's clothes were scattered over his furniture, but the events leading up to it. It had started with a game of chess where, for every piece captured, the owner of the taken piece had to reveal a secret. Not surprisingly, Spock captured quite a few of Jim's pieces, and some interesting information was revealed. But Jim took Spock's queen, discovering the most interesting secret of all: Spock had some illogical feelings where his captain was concerned.

Some _very _illogical feelings. Feelings that had been worked out between now-wrinkled and exertion-soaked sheets.

Jim smiled sleepily and hummed again. That made his morning a little better.

His eyes glanced at the clock again. It was 6:26. And there went the morning.

Jim rolled over with the intention of ignoring the clock (and giving Spock a wake-up kiss or two in the process), but then he saw it. The other side of his queen bed was empty, the sheets neatly arranged and quasi-smoothed out, but nonetheless vacant.

He rolled onto his back and put his hands over his face, his heart pretty much dropping out his stomach. There were no words to describe the way he felt, like a puppy dropped on the street by its favorite (and only) master. In a way, he probably deserved it—how many girls had he done this to?—and this was karma paying him back. By taking away the satisfaction of waking up next to his Vulcan.

Yeah, he was wallowing in it a little. But he hadn't been lying when he'd said his attraction for Spock was more than just carnal. He'd just understated the fact. By a factor of about a hundred. And as for Spock being _his _Vulcan, well, there was the hope for it. Or had been for a night.

Dammit, how the hell was he alive when he was this much of an idiot?

After an endless minute of constant "God, it's really happening," the sounds of running water pierced his consciousness. Jim sat up in bed, a little confused, before he realized the water was coming from his shower. A small hope plucked at his heartstrings, pulled it up from his stomach. It would make sense, wouldn't it, that the very disciplined Commander would get up early to shower? He was only showering. Right.

That was about the time Jim heard the other noise over the shower. It was the unmistakable sound of music being played, like out of a speaker system, but softer and more refined in quality.

And then it hit him. That was Spock's voice, too low to understand, singing in the shower.

Jim slipped out of bed as quickly and quietly as he possibly could, the sudden coldness across his body barely registering in his brain as he started towards the bathroom. The door was open by a fraction, with tendrils of steam gliding away in gentle curls, but Jim couldn't bring himself to go inside. For sure that would ruin the entire moment. So he pressed himself against the wall, listening. His mind was wide awake now, ears working more efficiently than usual to comprehend something beyond the low, musing melody that seemed so strangely familiar.

And then the melody hit.

"_L'amour…l'amour…"_

Jim's back practically melded into the wall. Holy _hell, _Spock was singing _Carmen_. Opera. And doing a damn fine job of it. In the back of his mind, where his brain was still functioning, opera made sense; Spock liked classical music, or at least Brahms, so the leap to opera was feasible. It was a classical score with lyrics added on top. But it was still Spock, singing from one of the most emotionally-charged operas Jim knew. It was about a promiscuous gypsy and the soldier who loved and killed her—how much more illogical and un-Vulcan could you get? It was so anti-Spock it could be laughable.

But Spock _had _admitted to liking action movies. And by god, Spock's voice was _amazing_. Jim could swear on his soul that he'd never heard another voice like it. The language seemed to roll off his Vulcan tongue as naturally as it would from a true Frenchman, and the sound was incredibly smooth and constant, with no cracks on the high notes and no drops on the low notes. Waxing poetically, it was comparable to…well, nothing, really. It was incomparable. Unearthly. _Beautiful._

Jim slowly sank to the floor, eyes closing and mind flooding with the sound of Spock's voice. Unconsciously he found himself mouthing the words as Spock continued to sing. "_L'amour est enfant de Bohême, il n'a jamais, jamais connu de loi. Si tu ne m'aimes pas, je t'aime; si je t'aime, prends garde à toi!"_

"_Prends garde à toi!"_ went the chorus on tape.

"_Mais si tu ne m'aimes pas, si tu ne m'aimes pas, je t'aime!"_

Jim's throat was straining in an effort to keep silent, but at that his throat flew open with the chorus, tearing _"Prends garde à toi"_ from his lips in a strangled whisper. He clapped a hand to his mouth, terrified that Spock had heard, but the aria went on in an unbroken string.

"_Mais, si je t'aime, si je t'aime—"_ Spock inhaled, then belted out the end of the stanza _"—prends garde à toi!"_

Jim could've cried for joy, but there wasn't any time. The last note was still ringing in his ears when he heard Spock's voice issue from the shower in its usual controlled tone.

"Come in the bathroom, Jim."

After another undignified noise, Jim slipped into the bathroom with a sheepishly murmured "Hi, Spock" that could hardly have been heard over the continuing soundtrack. For some reason it was only then that he realized how little he was wearing. Specifically, just his briefs. With Spock right behind the shower curtain.

Hello, slight hard-on.

Spock didn't step out of the shower to notice, though. "I thought you would still be asleep."

"Woke up really early. Can't explain it."

"It is illogical," Spock agreed. Jim could see his silhouette through the shower curtain, with the outlines of his arms reaching up to soap his hair. "I am the only one with bridge duty very early in the morning. Your shifts do not start until much later."

Jim made a slight face and hoisted himself onto the bathroom counter. "You have duty today?"

"As I do every day," was the reply. "Today is my early shift, but I rise early in any case. You, however, do not usually arrive on the bridge until around ten-thirty at the earliest, regardless of whether it is your shift or not."

Jim looked down at the marbled countertop, which was slippery from the steam. "So…were you counting on me not waking up?" he asked, swinging his legs awkwardly. "So you could leave for duty?"

The shadowy arms ceased their motions for a second. "Yes and no," he said slowly. "I was counting on finishing my shower quickly enough to return to you before you awoke."

There was a second of stunned silence, punctuated only by the continuing soundtrack. Jim put a hand to his chest where his heart had suddenly begun to race, and his lips quirked up in a little smile. Spock, the most unemotional and utterly logical being he knew, cared enough about him to come back. To see him again before going out. To make sure he didn't wake up alone.

Jim suddenly hopped off the counter and wriggled out of his briefs before slipping rather quietly into the shower. Spock didn't turn around to see him, didn't acknowledge the rustle of the curtain. He just stood there in the middle of the water spray, little rivulets rolling down his back and shoulders until his pale skin was gleaming wet in the light. Jim's heart started to race even faster, and whatever softness he still had in his cock vanished entirely. How had it taken this long for him to realize, finally, how perfect his first officer was—not only the physically obvious, but the mental and secret emotional?

His hand went out of his own accord, touched the wet shoulder. "When were you gonna tell me?"

The Vulcan turned around, flushing slightly as he looked Jim in the eye. "Tell you what, Captain?"

Jim shook his head and smiled. "Spock. You cared enough to come back?"

The flush increased from grass to forest-green. "It is common courtesy to—"

"Spock."

There was a pause. Jim found his fingertips were suddenly warmer than usual, and in the recesses of his stomach he felt a tremor of nervousness. "Yes, I care," Spock murmured. "I care very, very much for you."

Without letting Jim speak any more, Spock pressed their bodies together, then their mouths. A little electrical spark seemed to go off the moment their lips touched. The heat at Jim's fingers increased a hundred-fold, and it seemed to emanate from Spock's very _skin_, from something even deeper than that. The warmth carried through despite the chill of the shower, and sunk into Jim's bones. He could feel a thousand things swirling around in his head and heart—mouths pressing eagerly, affection, nervousness again, skin and skin together, curiosity, wetness of tongue, a spark of desire and _t'ekon aitlu nash-veh tu James—_

Jim pulled away suddenly, almost knocking his head against the shower wall. "That—" he panted, unsure of how to speak "—was that—_melding?"_

Spock nodded; a trickle of embarrassment bubbled in Jim's stomach. "If I have overstepped my boundaries, Captain, I can retract the connection."

Jim shook his head over and over until flecks of water flew off the ends. "Don't pull back," he murmured, leaning his head forward until their brows touched. He never wanted it to end, never wanted to stop feeling what Spock was. It was too wonderful. Why hadn't they done this last night, in the middle of their heat? It would have been—

"Too much for you," Spock said. "To initiate a mind-meld during intercourse…the emotions that run through _my _body at that time would be transferred to you, and be too much for you to handle without physical repercussions." His dark eyes flickered downward to Jim's jaw, where his fingers began to trace an absent path. "I would never put that kind of pressure on you."

Jim huffed softly. What was it with Vulcans sometimes, treating every human like they were made of glass? Like last night, when Spock refused to take top, because he was "three times as strong" and liable to hurt him on accident. God, just for once, he wanted to see Spock unwind, _really_ unwind, wanted him to meld them together and screw him senseless so he could feel it.

Spock must have heard the whole line of thought, because his eyes darkened in warning. "Captain…"

"_Please, _Spock," Jim pleaded. "Just once."

"It will be impossible for you to change your mind once I begin."

That was it. Jim seized a few locks of Spock's wet hair and pulled him into a hard, brief, and very passionate kiss. "Meld to me," he growled, "and fuck me."

Spock shuddered and glared at him. In a single, sudden movement he shoved them back against the shower wall, pinning Jim between the slippery tile and Spock's hitherto unnoticed erection. Jim let out a moan of approval at the contact, and in response Spock ground them together slow and tantalizingly. His thin fingers reached up to Jim's temples and, mid-grind, pressed hard into the skin.

For the second time Jim felt heat from Spock's skin, but this time it was far more intense. Spock's thoughts rammed into him like a train, and god for-fucking-bid but Jim _felt it—_the way his skin felt under Spock's roaming hands, the glorious pressure of hip-to-hip contact, and above all, the raging desire that backed it, that absolute _need _to hear Jim moan his name again.

The last bit was what made Jim groan. He tugged again at Spock's hair, pulled him into another kiss which, this time, was fully reciprocated and with lots of tongue. The mind meld was making it too hard to think, too hard to concentrate on hips and mouths and hands, but even so when Spock pulled his hips back and his lips away Jim whimpered in protest.

Spock shook his head minutely, put a finger to Jim's mouth even as he panted. His other hand slipped away from the wall, trailed down Jim's chest and stomach, and curled delicately around his cock.

Jim inhaled very sharply. "Shit, Spock," he breathed.

Spock raised a single devious eyebrow. _"__Kal'uh nash-veh?"_ he purred with a gentle nip of Jim's earlobe. And as if Jim needed any extra incentive, Spock's fingers trailed upward from the base of his shaft all the way up to the tip—and swirled.

"Oh, god, Spock," Jim moaned, bucking into Spock's hand. In reply the Vulcan seized his mouth again with an almost primal ferocity, sucked at his bottom lip before invading his mouth with his tongue. Something crossed the mind meld, made Jim speak between kisses that something he hardly understood: _"Spock, sanu, estuhl'uh nash-veh…"_

And lord, did he touch. Every stroke of his hand seemed to drive right into Jim's soul, made him shudder in pure pleasure under continued kisses. And he felt the echo rebounding from Spock's mind as well, heard with his own ears the husky groans coming from that gorgeous throat, and it all drove him mad with want. He reached a hand out and started to reciprocate the strokes, gently massaging at the base, and the low rumble of approving lust from him drove their hands faster.

The meld was amplifying everything at a thousand times the norm, so it didn't take long until they were both panting, their kisses becoming more infrequent and less controlled. At some point Spock let out a soft gasp and, in a flurry of muddled ideas in their heads, removed their hands and pushed their cocks together. The touch alone was like an electric spark between them and they both groaned. Their hands moved out at the same time and redoubled everything they had been doing, turning the spark into an inferno of harsh pants and half-gentle pulling and curling and up and down and up and down…

And then suddenly they were there, moaning and arching under each other's hands, either and both of them at the same time. Their releases mingled along with the bliss that accompanied it, until the former was splattered on their stomachs and dripping into the drain with all the shower water.

Spock let out a final weak groan. His hands slipped as his knees started to buckle, and it was a miracle Jim had the strength to catch him and hold him up. "You okay?" he breathed, running a hand through the dark hair.

Spock nodded. His chest was heaving as he breathed heavily. "I have never felt so…so…"

"Complete," Jim offered. It was the only thing he could think of that worked, other than "spent."

Spock nodded again, more fervently, and looked up into Jim's eyes. "Take me to bed," he whispered. "Please."

Jim stroked the back of Spock's neck and nodded in return. A little shot of warmth bloomed in his stomach, something that wasn't connection to his groin or even to the meld. It was all his own.

There was an answering bloom of warmth from Spock's end of connection, something that began in the chest. Jim cradled the Vulcan in his arms, lifted him up gently, and carried him out of the shower. He was toweling them off a little—lessen the water damage to the mattress, Spock's idea—when his brain realized that _Carmen _was still playing.

He shook his head in amazement. "How did I not notice that?" he said.

"We were distracted." Spock's lips quirked upward in a tired but nonetheless amused fashion. "You know 'Toreador' was playing as we began our physical activities?"

"Toreador," Jim repeated. The bull-fighter's song. The song of triumph. "Holy hell."

Spock's thoughts could not conceal what would have manifested as a grin. "Should I replay the song in a few minutes, Captain?" he asked coolly.

Without having to ask, Jim scooped Spock back into his arms and flashed him his best smile. "I'd rather have you distract me again. And I'll excuse you from your bridge duties this morning _entirely."_

"Much obliged, Captain," murmured Spock. He pressed a gentle kiss to Jim's neck, and they felt the mutual bloom of warmth pass between them again before they headed for the bedroom.

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_Translation Notes: Yes, I actually went through and conjugated these sentences; thank you, Vulcan Language Institute. Here are all the translations, from Vulcan to English, in the order that they appear, if you're_ _interested. The punctuation is the only thing that's inaccurate, and only because I didn't think about how the marks would translate between the languages_.  
_~ T'ekon aitlu nash-veh tu James— : _My god, I want you, James—  
_~ Kal'uh nash-veh? _: Let me?  
_~ Spock, sanu, estuhl'uh nash-veh... _: Spock, please, touch me...

_Author's Notes: This fic was considerably difficult to write, just because of its nature. I mean, Spock singing in the shower? Crack enough idea as it is, but what about what he sings? It's only because I was able to bounce ideas off of **Tech Duinn** that I managed to come up with Carmen, and trust me when I say that was the least ridiculous idea we came up with. I can't thank her enough, so...I dedicated the smut to her. Much love, TD! And equal amounts of love, of course, to my amazing beta **xladyjagsvolleyball16x **for again putting up with the endless stream of fiction, and to every last one of my readers for their continued support, love, reviews, and faves._


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